


love can be like a lost child

by sandpapersnowman



Category: Dexter (TV)
Genre: Coming Untouched, F/M, Mild Painplay, Using A Blowtorch For Something A Blowtorch Should Not Be Used For
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-14
Updated: 2017-09-14
Packaged: 2018-12-29 17:39:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12090042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sandpapersnowman/pseuds/sandpapersnowman
Summary: She's opened his mind to some things.





	love can be like a lost child

**Author's Note:**

> warning: there's a brief paragraph of dexter being gross and thinking about exactly how he'd die if she just shoved the blowtorch right in his guts but it doesn't Actually happen

She runs the blowtorch down his stomach like a finger. Trails it lovingly, like it's truly an extension of herself, and he shivers under it.

"Remember not to move," she reminds him, kisses him so harshly it leaves his lips red, and then she sits back.

The head of the blowtorch had been freezing from disuse when she'd touched him with it, but soon, a spark and a turned dial later, the fire cuts to life in the tense air. Not as hot or bright as it could be, like it would be for welding, but enough to see just a hint of flame at the end.

"I trust you," he sighs. He does. She could kill him now -- he'd scream while his body hair singed down, his skin bubbled, his abdomen would split into charred meat, his intestines would bubble, burst; if she got his lungs he'd start gasping, unable to get enough air while his bronchial tubes expanded from heat, burst, singed closed again. She might go lower, his stomach, intestines, let undigested food and stomach acid spill out into his abdominal cavity while he made wretched, helpless noises.

Instead, he only feels the lightest heat over a pectoral.

He shudders.

"Don't move," she giggles again. "I could burn you."

God, yes, she could.

She never lets the flame touch him, only getting it close enough he feels the prickle of heat and the tendrils of _pain, bad, stop_ shoot into his spine.

It's _good_.

 _"Fuck"_ is whispered when she dares to go lower, below his navel and almost close enough to join the heat of arousal in his hips, between his legs -- she barely singes a belt loop, he hears it and smells it and feels the shift of tension in the fabric, and he has to shut his eyes.

Her hand is freezing, in general and especially compared to the torch, and it's a different torture entirely as she undoes his button and zipper and pulls him out of his pants, more than half hard and dripping more than a little precum.

"Stay still," she reminds him again, and the heat moves off his hip and over his stomach again.

"I can't," he whimpers. "It's too much."

Heat pours like liquid summer onto the head of his cock, then slowly down the underside.

"You can," she promises. "Just a little longer."

He opens his eyes to try to stop her, make sure she keeps going, anything, he doesn't know, but all he can see is stars.

"Lila --" he gasps, but the heat slides back up like she's stroking him, and it takes everything in him to press his hips _down_ instead of up into the heat.

"Hold on, love," she coos, and the heat starts moving over him smoothly, rhythmically -- like she's just taken him in her hand or in her mouth or _in_ her and this is coming naturally. Hell, maybe it is.

" _Please --_ "

"Shh," Lila hushes him, presses the blowtorch a _millimeter_ closer.

It does him in. He shakes, as immobile as possible while the heat still _sears_ his skin, terrified of moving and wanting with every muscle in him to move up into it, the burn would be _worth it_ , maybe he'd be scarred and he'd never forget this. A souvenir of the time he was laid out in an artist's bed, turned into a portrait of lust and want and obedience, frozen like a picture while she inches the heat away. He hears her turn the blowtorch off, but still don't move until her hands rub up his sides.

Tension leaves him in a gasp for air, chest heaving and body writhing, getting out all the fidgeting he needs before he focuses back on Lila.

"You did so good for me, Dexter," she says, and kisses him, over and over. "So, so good."

He knows she has longer sessions in mind. They've discussed them, long nights of the torch and candles and candle _wax_ and putting out cigarettes on him, but this was the best they could do rushed and full of adrenaline and _needy_ for each other.

"I'll do even better next time," he promises.

It's not a lie.

**Author's Note:**

> the title is from inspirobot. Thanks


End file.
